


Age of Knowledge

by Silential



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), Stargate Universe
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-08-25
Packaged: 2017-12-21 15:42:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silential/pseuds/Silential
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the age of scientific revolution, Nicholas Rush, natural philosopher, is a colleague of inventor and businessman, Sir Maurice. Through the Royal Society, he slowly comes to care for Belle, Maurice's capable and rather odd daughter who insists upon attending meetings as well. Collection of oneshots based on prompts for Scientific Revolution verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Original Prompt

**Author's Note:**

> Original prompt.

 “Can you believe that Sir Maurice brought her _again_?” He tittered, voice kept low as the members of the Royal Society milled about before the start of council. 

The man – Andrew Covel, Baron Middleton – leaned closer, perfumed to the gills and almost choking Nicholas with the pungent odor. He was a minor lordling who playacted at the newest fads, in this case electricity and cosmology, and yet true to the peerage, never missed an opportunity to censure one he deemed below him. Typical.

Nicholas did not need to turn to see who he meant. There was only ever one woman who attended the Royal Society meetings.

“I see no problem with it. Besides, did you know she is helping to translate Rohault’s _Traité de physique_ and is an accomplished lensmaker with her father? Many of which, I might add, are used in the telescopes you and I employ as the tools of our trade,” he grit out, stoppering the irritation that threatened to overflow. He was already the son of a shipwright, no need to jeopardize his newly acquired title by thoroughly thrashing a man above his station. “Pray tell, good Sir, what is it that you have done recently?”

The man harrumphed, and, seeing he would find no gossip or cruel jabs from his would-be conversation partner, bid him a cold farewell as quickly as courtesy allowed.

Nicholas sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and attempting to dispel a headache before it could completely take root. Council meetings were known to stretch on for ages, and half of the members were utter fools.

“Supposedly there’s a fainting couch on the second floor should you care to lie down,” came a voice at his elbow. When he turned to appraise her, he found a clever smile quirking her lips. It sent a horde of butterflies fluttering through his stomach.

“And how would you know of its existence, Ms. French?” He almost slipped and called her _Belle_ , but she had never invited him to do so, despite how fervently he wished she would.

 “My first visit, I was shown the couch before I was the council chambers.” Her eyes slid to a group of older men arguing near the door to the main chambers, and her meaning was clear. Isaac, a man after Nicholas’ own heart, was known for disliking anyone he felt was a threat. 

He nodded, and an errant image popped into his head – the two of them, side by side on the couch and so near he could smell her hair, enjoying each other’s company while the fools argued downstairs. The likelihood of the situation about matched that of Leibniz receiving the credit he deserved for inventing calculus.

Unable to look her in the eye, and cognizant of the meeting about to begin, Nicholas carefully weighed out his words. 

“Ms. French, I was wondering if you would care to join me at my residence in two day’s time.”

“Your home?” Her brow lifted. “Alone?”

He mentally hit himself at the implication of impropriety, and struggled to save the situation, “I should have added that your father is more than welcome to attend as well. I would ask your opinion about an instrument I have recently acquired. The lenses are faulty, I believe.”

“I would be more than happy to attend, Nicholas.”

Grinning in what Nicholas could only describe as a knowing manner, Belle began to make her way towards the chamber doors. It was only later, while listening to the same old arguments from the same old fools, he realized she had used his given name. 


	2. They discuss his faulty telescope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The continuation of the previous prompt, they discuss his faulty telescope.

His study, much like the rest of his home, was not a place of warmth. Flames flickered behind the grate, throwing light and meager heat into the center of the room but never quite managing to do more than lick the front panels of his desk. Normally Nicholas did not mind the added chill, believing it to stimulate his senses and his intellect, but today, as he watched Belle unconsciously draw her shawl tighter about her shoulders, he cursed himself for being so inhospitable. 

The knowledge that _inhospitable_ applied to more facets of his life than this did not make him feel any better.

Nicholas drew as close as he dared, ostensibly to add more light with the candle clutched in one sweating hand. The edge of his coat barely brushed her arm but Belle took no notice, wholly intent upon the contraption before her. It was a reflective telescope, somewhat updated from the version Newton first presented to the Society some twenty years prior, and he’d known it to be defective when he bought it. Gentle fingers turned it this way and that, pausing a moment to stare into the tube here, or tweak a section of casing there. A frown pulled at her mouth.

“And how much did you pay for this?” 

Though he had bought the instrument with contacting her in mind, the idea that she would be interested in the details of its purchase was surprising. He swallowed, unsure if he wanted to admit the full amount and risk looking like a fool. It had certainly been worth every penny to spend even this hour in her presence.

Finally, he settled for, “Quite a pretty sum. But, to be fair, I had thought I might be able to fix it myself.”

She peered up at him from where she leaned over his desk, frown having given way to the first flashes of a smile. “Only to learn later that the damage was so extensive as to be outside of your vast talents.”

Her grin calling forth one of his own, Nicholas could only chuckle at what he was sure was a backhanded compliment. He treasured it nonetheless. “Yes, unfortunately. For the record, I did try.”

“The good news is I believe the situation can be salvaged.” In his opinion, the good news was that Belle French was interacting with him at all, much less in his home while her father handled an unexpected bit of business downstairs, but the idea that the scope might be saved was also welcome. 

Keeping his thoughts to himself, Nicholas instead asked, “Can you regrind the lens?”

“Well, no. But we can make you a new one. This one is hardly worth more than horse shit.” 

She didn’t even seem aware of the uncouthness of her tone, and it warmed him in several places to think she felt she could speak so freely with him. Unscrewing the wood which held the lenses in place, Belle removed one of them and added, “See here? Your primary mirror was not ground evenly, it’s too shallow on this end. Having nothing else to go on, I’d say this was made by an apprentice and included to cut costs.”

Nicholas nodded, having seen the young man himself when at the shop to purchase it. About to reply, he was arrested by the thoughtful gaze scrutinizing his own. 

“What I don’t understand is…” Belle began, standing tall once more and shuffling the tiniest bit until they touched, “why you of all people would have purchased it. You know a bad lens when you see it.”

Staring down in shock where her hand lightly rested on his arm, Nicholas fumbled for words. _Any_ words. “As I said before, Ms. French, I thought I could fix it myself.”

“I see.” A grin flirted with her lips, before she seemed to get ahold of it, a faux sternness taking its place. “Well this is bound to be a long process, Nicholas. My father and I believe in quality and utmost perfection in our work, so we may need to fit a variety of lenses and focal lengths. It will require a good number of visits to your home.”

Unable to quite believe what she was offering, he could feel his heart speed up in his chest. The lenses hardly required that much time and personal interaction, much less house visits. “The both of you are welcome whenever it suits you.”

Belle tutted, drawing away to sink into one of the few chairs he kept for guests that never came. Her dress, simple in cut and color, fanned out around her. The firelight flickered upon it like burnished gold. “It will actually be me personally overseeing this venture. My father and I are in agreement in this.”

“Really?” Nick followed, the perverse thought of sitting at her feet stealing across his mind. Instead, he took the chair to her right, watching as she angled towards him. 

“Yes, he is a busy man with many orders. I can more than handle something like this.”

“Of course, I didn’t mean to suggest – but, what of…?” The right words seemed to scatter like dust on the wind, and he was almost afraid of reminding her of their situation, lest she come to her senses and _stop_. He couldn’t bear it.

Belle waved her hand at the implication, a rueful grin on her face. There was the echo of old pain there, and he longed to soothe it away. “In the eyes of the world, a woman is already ruined when she takes to filling her head with philosophy and the stars. There is little I can do now to shock them further, and dealing with a legitimate business order is hardly one of them. No one would make a match with me anyway.”

Seeing her for the kindred spirit she was, now more than ever, Nicholas could only reflect to himself that if she would allow it, he would marry with her at once. Her father might agree, but he doubted she would wish to be chained to the likes of him. Keeping quiet, he hoped she would continue, and when she did, it was not in the way he was expecting.

An odd expression had taken over her features, and the brilliant blue of her eyes pinned him to his seat. “Pardon me for being so forward, but I want to thank you. You’re the only person besides my father who doesn’t make me feel strange for wanting to be _more._ You don’t make me feel defective, or silly for my desires to learn about the world. I’ve heard what they say about you, and while it’s not as bad as what they said about _me_ –” Cutting herself off, she shook her head to clear the thought and continued, “I know your poor background, I know your perseverance. No one decides our fate but us.”

Her features softened, and for a moment, her fingers twitched as if she almost might want to reach for his hand. Instead, she whispered, “And it’s so refreshing to talk with you as a person talks to another person. To listen and be heard. Thank you.”

Clearing his throat, Nicholas could barely contain the words that threatened to escape. He was known for being cold, calculating, and fixated on his work, but with her, all of that coldness, that inhospitableness, seemed impossibly empty. “The pleasure is all mine, to claim time with one of the sharpest minds I have ever met, and pardon _me_ for being forward, one of the kindest souls. There is nothing to thank me for, Ms. French.”

“It’s Belle, Nicholas. You know that.”

“Thank you, Belle.” 

His study, much like the rest of his home, was not a place of warmth. But at the moment, he wouldn’t have known. 


	3. Closed Curtains

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Nick does not come to the Society meeting on the anniversary of his wife’s death, Belle comes calling the next day.

With a sudden influx of patrons, the shop had been nearly overwhelmed the past couple weeks. Every available operator of the lathe was required, and fulfilling pressing orders for everything from spectacles to telescope lenses had necessitated the cancellation of her weekly visit with Nicholas not once, but twice. As such, Belle had eagerly looked forward to that month’s Royal Society meeting, knowing they’d turn every free moment towards the wealth of new material to discuss. Not to mention that, quite simply, she’d missed him.

At her father’s side, she had scoured the room for the man she most wanted to see, her head turning at each opening creak of the door to admit a new member. It wasn’t like him to be late, but it was even _more_ unlike him to miss a meeting at all. Craning her neck almost uncomfortably, Belle felt the beginnings of worry coil low in her gut. 

“Perhaps he is merely working, Belle. The man still has a few patrons left to satisfy.”

Turning to her father sitting ramrod straight in his seat, Belle felt a blush creep down her neck. She _had_ been rather obvious, she supposed, and didn’t miss the meaning in his words. Though he tacitly supported a match, he had warned her of the difficult life that would no doubt come of it, what with her oddity and his recent loss in favor. Maurice, once known as the crazy inventor before he’d found a thriving business, did not hold it against Nicholas that the tides were beginning to turn in favor of a newcomer. Belle had seen him only once, a naive and brilliant young man.

 She didn’t know what to make of this Mr. Wallace. 

 “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” she murmured with no mention of her thoughts, and when the meeting began still without a trace of him, Belle struggled to put it from her mind. Her dour mood continued nonetheless, and even an expertly explained proof from Leibniz – as well as the proverbial steam rising from Isaac’s ears – wasn’t enough to shake her melancholy.

The next morning Belle had itched to call upon Nicholas, finding herself wholly uninvolved in her work and making more mistakes than she’d ever thought possible. Once noon had come and gone, she’d gathered up her shawl and coat and made for the streets, trekking through mud and muck to his door. Rapping upon it, Belle shifted from foot to foot, as much from worry as the chill.

As the moments stretched into long minutes, she could only glance up at the dark windows above, noting that thick curtains had been drawn tight across them. 

The familiar rasp of a metal clasp heralded the opening of the door. Weak winter sunlight spilled into the interior, revealing a face more haggard than normal. He didn’t speak, merely stepped aside and allowed her to pass. The door closed behind her. 

Immediately she whirled on him, unable to stop the barrage of questions from leaving her mouth. “Are you ill? Should I run to the apothecary? Have you any broth or should I prepare some?”

A ghost of a smile, hardly worthy of the name, flitted briefly across his lips, but the sober expression that quickly took its place belied any merriment. “I’m fine, Belle, but I thank you,” he murmured.

Lost without a plan of action, Belle didn’t quite know what to say. Nicholas certainly didn’t look like his normal self; his hair, normally brushed and parted neatly, looked lank and his waistcoat was nowhere to be seen. While his carefully trimmed beard usually served to make him look distinguished, today it merely made him seem _old_. 

Frowning, she wanted nothing more than to make it better – whatever  _it_ was. He pointed towards the parlor and she headed towards it, saying, “Too long working during the night? I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“You didn’t, not to worry.” They both sat on their usual couch, she sweeping aside her skirts and he falling heavily into its embrace. He sunk low in a way she hadn’t seen before, his head turning to appraise her with a grimace. Words ricocheted inside his brain, and she knew he wouldn’t find peace until they were spoken. 

Meeting his eyes, she whispered, “Whatever it is, you can tell me, Nicholas.”

He broke contact first, his gaze falling to her hands clasped in her lap. The grimace only deepened, pulling at frown lines already too pronounced from a life that had clearly not been one of overwhelming mirth. Finally, with a heavy breath, he let the words escape.

“Yesterday was the anniversary of my wife, Gloria’s, death.”

Her heart breaking for him, she could distantly recall her father mentioning the deceased Mrs. Rush, lost long before Belle had begun to attend Society meetings. Never one for pity, she wore her empathy bare in her tone. “I’m sorry, Nicholas. Truly.”

A wan smile plucked at his mouth, but couldn’t quite take root. He wouldn’t meet her eyes. “It’s been five years, but I still couldn’t go to the meeting.”

“I understand. A loss is always a loss, no matter how long has passed.”

His eyes flickered closed, and the bile that accompanied his next words shocked her. “It’s not just that,” he bit out, bringing the heels of his hands to rub at his eyes, “I put my work before Gloria in life, and I just can’t do it to her in death too.”

Wrenching his hands, away, he fixed her with a heated stare. Daring her to leave him as she knew he so desperately wished he could leave himself. “I wasn’t even there, you know, when she succumbed to it. She fought the illness for six months; the physician didn’t even know what it was, much less how to treat it. The last four she spent in and out of consciousness, and for much of them I was in my study. I _tried_ , but I could hear her babbling, coughing, and I…”

Despite all their talks, Belle knew precious little about his marriage, and was only now seeing it for the barely healed wound it was. Even with the pain that lanced and hoarsened his voice, she was thankful he was sharing more of his life with her. “You know as well as I that there is nothing you could have done.”

His tone was hard.  “I could have let my wife die with more than a nurse beside her.”

Knowing it wouldn’t help matters to argue about it now, Belle could only sigh and attempt to wrest the proverbial cat-o-nine-tails from his hand. What was done was done, and five years of self-flagellation was more than enough. “Did you pull away out of malice?”

He shot upwards, seizing her hands and squeezing tightly. He spoke earnestly, a wild light that bordered uncomfortably on hysteria in his eyes. “Of course not. I loved her. I couldn’t stand to see her fade, knowing I couldn’t do a thing – it felt like I was dying with her. I _loved_ her.”

Squeezing back, Belle kept her words soft, longing to stroke the side of his face. Pain radiated from every pore, and Belle believed with all her rational heart that tending to the living was worth more than needlessly mourning the dead. “And I believe wholeheartedly that Gloria knows this. She knew _you_ , she knew there was no ill-will in your heart. If she can see you now, I think she understands and forgives you, Nicholas.”

Seemingly becoming aware of how tightly he was gripping her hands, he eased up but did not let go. Her thumb gently ran over his knuckles, and some of the tension eased in his visage. Even if he didn’t accept her words fully today, she hoped in time he might let them soak into the scorched earth left behind by his wife’s passing. Nicholas seemed to have come to terms with her loss itself, but the guilt – that was another monster entirely. Belle knew about guilt.

“When I was very young,” she started, watching as his eyes patiently held her own, “I lost my mother. One summer, when the water was particularly foul, she contracted typhoid. They wouldn’t let me in to see her for three weeks, and when she finally passed, all I could think was how she died alone without me.” 

Nicholas lifted her hand upwards, bestowing a kiss that was barely more than a touch of lips against the back of her hand. “She doesn’t blame you, Belle.”

“Neither does Gloria. Death is never easy, and allowing guilt to consume you won’t help matters.” 

At this, she mirrored his action, placing the lightest of kisses just above where their hands were joined. The breath left his lungs heavily. 

“My father told me to honor my mother by living my life and treasuring her memory. You must do the same for Gloria,” Belle stated with finality, pulling herself from the couch. He peered up at her in confusion until she pulled him to his feet as well. 

Belle grinned, a sad, small thing that spoke of always moving forward. “Let’s start by opening the curtains and letting the light back in.”


	4. Defying Etiquette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If being proper didn’t exist, if you didn’t abide by rules of society, what would one do?

With a low waist and good tailoring, the amaretto justacorps he always wore highlighted his trim physique perfectly, and while it was not nearly as elaborate as the other members’ and may have been ten years out of date, it was perfect on him. All the times she had quietly admired Nicholas from across the room at a Society meeting, or stood perhaps the tiniest bit closer so as to catch a glimpse of the detail on his collar, she had believed nothing could make him more handsome. 

That was until Belle had become quite a regular fixture at his home and saw what he wore underneath.

Nicholas crouched presently before one of his bookcases, hunting for a Robert Anderson text published just a few years before. Though both of them usually turned their gaze towards celestial bodies, weapons systems and their reliance on mathematics were a bit of a hobby of his and formed the basis of their current debate. A little distracted by him so close, Belle had taken a stab in the dark with her claim, and the chances that the book might refute her were high.

Gone was the long overcoat that marked the realm of the public, revealing the brown waistcoat and ruffled cream shirt beneath. These were pleasant enough, of course, but in the current situation she found her gaze drifting to where it shouldn’t, lingering on the close fitted breeches that hugged his backside, she could admit, _perfectly_. Though he normally forsook the justacorps, this was the first time Belle had been granted such a view, and she intended to enjoy it, propriety be damned.

If the social code had vanished entirely that minute, she would have had half a mind to cross the room and haul him upwards, pushing him against the shelves and kissing him senseless. 

As it was, Belle could only smile to herself and dream.

—-

Running his fingers over the same title for what felt like the fiftieth time, Nicholas struggled to breathe deep. There was no way he could have remained on the low couch in his drafty and ill-furnished parlor without doing something incredibly foolish. Behind him, he heard the fabric of Belle’s dress rustle as she shifted, and as heightened as his senses had been driven by the proximity to her, the sound damn near drove him mad.

She always looked beautiful, that was a given. But today there was just something about her – whether it was her hair, windswept by the London gusts, that begged for his fingers to sink into it, or her lips, chapped by the weather and so delectably red it set his blood aflame, he couldn’t say. He had imagined kissing her before, and to his shame, imagined things quite worse, but today was the closest he had come to acting on it. 

The way she had playfully nudged his shoulder, as if they were on a lovers’ visit rather than a technical business meeting that had stopped being business near two hours before, or grinned cunningly before eviscerating his arguments with the utmost finesse had only worsened the heat flooding his skin.

Needing something to focus on, he bowed his head and tried to reclaim control of his body. Thoughts plagued him: of returning to the couch and gently slipping his hands into her hair, bringing her mouth to his and worshipping her as a lover would, stroking the soft flesh of her neck and _tasting_ her by God – 

No. Belle had not chosen and would not choose the out-of-favor son of a Glasgow shipwright, no matter the _sir_ attached by a thread to his name. She had shame enough to deal with, she would hardly want to bear his too. 

Grabbing the Anderson text which had been in front of him all along, Nicholas recited the opening to _Principia Mathematica_ in his head and rose to his feet. 


	5. What's in a Name?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only way Belle can submit a paper is to do it anonymously or under a pseudonym. Rush helps her come up with names.

“Despite your normally convincing arguments, I’m still saying no,” he countered, words softened by the little smile she noted peeking out from behind the thundercloud.

Sighing, something long-suffering purely for effect, she huffed, “It’s better than your options by far, but I concede.”

Familiar scratching and a long line of black heralded the disqualification of another candidate, her last one apparently sounding too strident and altogether too hateful to be taken seriously as a fake man of science. On the other hand, Belle had rather liked the name Everett Young, combining an old family name she’d heard in Wiltshire with the fact that she was well, young.

Idly running her finger along the soft edge of her swan quill, Belle shifted in her armchair and waited for him to submit one off his own list for consideration. They’d cycled through nearly twenty names apiece thus far with nothing to show for it but ink-dribbled lines and faux insults to the other’s taste.

He took a moment to jot something down, his lips pursing. “George Avery.”

Nothing immediately came to mind when she heard it, which was more than she could say about some of his other choices. It was a good, simple name that no one would question – very English. At the same time though, perhaps it was too simple. She wanted to stand out in a way her sex would not allow her to, with the kind of name she would not miss in the hushed conversations of fellow scholars. If she could not receive the credit for her work she deserved, at least she could bask in its glow by proxy.

Drawing the quill over her lips, she said, “It’s a possibility. Leave it for now, and I’ll think more on it.”

Nicholas leaned back in his chair, facing her across the rough-hewn table in what passed as his kitchen. She said passed, as it was very obvious he had let his maid go as times had become harder, and the pantry’s stores had dwindled. A pot simmered over the low fire, some root vegetables and a bone she’d brought from home going towards the night’s stew. Far from charity, it was merely an excuse to take supper with him.

A flick of fingers indicated she should put forth her next name.

“Joseph MacAvoy.”

He made a face at it, and she had to laugh. Although Belle was positive he had meant to say something else, he merely muttered, “Too Scottish.”

Her brow lifted archly, wondering idly if he’d internalized some kind of self-bigotry from his time in London. Though their neighbors to the North had not been in favor in decades, his accent was welcome in her ears anytime. “Pot, meet kettle.”

Scratching at one trimmed cheek, his features contorted as if appraising a particularly bad smell. “It doesn’t suit you, my dear.”

She had chosen the name largely as a joke, but he didn’t need to know that. “Fine. Next.”

A glance down at his parchment, and then, “Robert Lacey.”

Her own visage came to mirror his earlier expression, and Belle wondered if she’d ever take a paper seriously written by such a man. She didn’t think so. “I think it hits a little too close to home, don’t you?”

He shrugged, crossing it off, and waited for her to speak. “David Charming.”

“Something about it sounds off,” he ventured. “And I never did like the name David.”

Scratching. Black line. “Fair enough.”

“Francis Baconandmash.”

Her eyes rolled almost of their own accord. By his serious tone, she had expected an actual candidate, and the name Francis had always been a favorite of hers. “Well now you’re just being silly.”

“Hardly, I’m quite fond of a good breakfast. And that was also my last candidate, by the way.”

“If, like a man, I thought with my stomach, it would also be the best,” she quipped, the barb bringing forth a shy smile from him.

Her teeth sunk into her lower lip with a bit of trepidation, as she too was on her last name. Personally her favorite, Belle had the niggling feeling that whether or not he approved, she might go with it anyway. It was her paper attempting to solve the three-body problem set forth by Newton in 1687, after all. Though she could not quite account for all gravitational interactions in such a system, Belle noted with no small amount of pride that her analysis stretched much farther than his.

It would be a stepping stone for some other soul to use, Belle hoped, if only she could get it recognized in the first place.

“Now, I know this name will sound rather odd,” Belle began, “but it’s with a purpose. I want something conspicuous, something they will know is a pseudonym, but can’t prove who wrote it.”

Silently, the idea that she didn’t want a man, even a fake man, receiving credit for her work flashed across her mind.

A pensive expression on his face, Nicholas leaned forward and rested his chin in the palm of his hand. His gaze fell to her parchment, and she quickly pulled it upwards to keep him from spoiling the surprise. “Try me.”

“Grecian Strand.”

His brows furrowed in confusion. “Like the coffeehouse? The Grecian, at the Strand?”

“Well, why not? It’s popular with the members of the Society, they’ll all know the reference. Besides,” Belle added, unable to help the little quirk to her lips, “don’t women tend to hate the coffeehouses for how much time their husbands spend there? It will be a pleasing irony.”

Nicholas nodded, though the downturn of his mouth spoke of his lingering doubt. “I appreciate the references, but perhaps consider making it more like a name – Gregory in place of Grecian? Your work is brilliant and deserves solemn treatment. Let them discuss the richness of ideas, not the name, for they are easily distracted fools.”

Touched by his honest assessment, Belle felt her cheeks flush red. Pushing away from the table, Belle headed for the almost ready stew as an excuse to hide her broad smile. The ladle stirred the thick mixture, and not even the fire below could come close to the heat inside her skin.

“When you put it that way, good sir, I can’t say no. Gregory Strand it is.”

After they supped, Belle planned to sign the name with a flourish and submit the next morning. The Society could and would read a manuscript penned by a woman.


	6. A Private Discourse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle is barred from a monthly meeting because the Society feels the subject matter will be too advanced for her feminine brain. She meets Eli. Follows directly from What’s in a Name?
> 
> AKA, the one where she meets Eli.

“I’m going to get to the bottom of this, Belle,” Nicholas muttered, side-eyeing the powdered fool standing in all but the sliver of doorway currently occupied by himself. Belle could read the tightly controlled rage in the lines around his mouth. “This will not stand.”

The man merely sniffed, not even bothering to look as he sneered, “In or out, Nicholas. No need to clog the entrance.”

Without another word, Nicholas headed into the main Society chambers, door closing with heavy finality behind him.

Belle made to follow him, but the lordling sidestepped in front of her once more.

He held up two hands, bedecked in gloves the same color as his wig, and shook his head for the tenth time. “As I was saying, I am sorry, Miss,” he simpered, and how she longed to snatch the smug expression from his face, “but I simply cannot allow you to attend today. With your father not in attendance –”

“– I told you, he cannot spare any time from the shop!” Belle shook the missive under his nose, bearing her father’s signature. “Look, I have a letter here from him permitting –“

“Yes, yes, you told me before.” The fool, whose name she could not recall – Covel? Cobble? – knocked her hand aside with a smirk, before primly clasping his in front of him. Everyone else was inside already, and his behavior worsened with only an empty room as audience. “But be that as it may, his absence combined with the advanced subject matter of today’s docket –“

“It’s the three-body problem analysis. What is so objectionable about that?” Fuming, Belle could feel the letter crumpling in her fist. The man towered over her by a good seven inches, but every primal instinct advised that surprise would allow her to take him down. Half considering it, she hissed, “This is nothing more than a power play, and you know it.”

“Despite your wild accusations, Miss French, the likes of which I suggest you do not make again should you wish to continue attending…” The primped fool narrowed his gaze, and if the iron encasing her will were any weaker, she might have felt its supports begin to crumble. “The council believes it would be best if you did not overtax your fair brain with the rigorous mathematics required of today’s paper.”

Her glower could have frozen beer. “The Society decided this, sir, or was it your lackeys? I know you have never been a fan of mine.”

“It’s the Society’s ruling.” His stare matched her own, nail for nail, before a sneer curled his lips. Turning to the door, he took hold of the handle and stepped just inside, leaving her with the parting words, “Run along now, the meeting is about to begin.”

The door slammed closed, the click of a lock following not a second after.

They had locked her out of her own manuscript review.

Although righteous ire had fueled her earlier words, it dissipated with the realization, the cold hard truth plummeting into her soul like the rocks which weighed down the suicide’s pockets. Ears ringing with the silence of the antechamber, Belle stumbled to the wall a few feet away, wanting to see anything but the door which separated her from what she rightfully deserved. Uncaring of skirts or society, she sunk to the floor.

This wasn’t happening. It wasn’t enough apparently that she had surrendered ownership of her work in the first place, bequeathed it to Gregory Strand and his thinly concealed sham, she was also to give up its discussion and critique – its legacy. Birthed from her mind and her hands, Belle would see no part of this, her child’s life.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, and Belle could do nothing but angrily wipe them away. Mathematical rigor her ass; the math had come from her mind in the first place. So many months wasted slaving over numbers by weak candlelight at all hours of the night, a thousand drawings made and discarded before she found a system that worked. So much ruined because of the petty jealousy and insecurity of a man. 

She had vowed to always decide her own fate, and the knowledge that even the littlest things could thwart her made her want to scream. There was already so little opportunity for a woman to show what she could do – did they have to take this from her as well?

Her chest constricting with unshed grief, Belle tipped her head back to rest against the wall. Breathe in, breathe out. Nick’s chances of success were slim to none in his crusade, but perhaps at least he would be able to listen and tell her about it later. The thought was meager comfort.

The door leading from the stairs crashed open, but Belle did not bother her eyes to do the same. Just another man, obviously late. Another man who would be admitted while she languished outside.

Heavy footfalls sounded against the wooden floor, drawing closer, paired with the distinctive panting of a man who’d run a long way. He stopped not two feet away.

“Sorry, excuse me, Miss – did they already begin?”

Her eyes snapped open, about to reply tersely that yes, they had, when the sight arrested her tongue. Heavyset with an ill-fitted red coat the hue of his face, Mr. Wallace stood with arms akimbo, desperately trying to catch his breath. A rather ratty brown wig was clutched in one hand, and the dull grey overcoat slung over his arm was patched.

More than a little surprised, Belle could only reply, “Fifteen minutes ago.”

Wallace’s face crumpled in distress, and his shoulders seemed to sag. “Goddamnit.”

“You could probably still knock,” she ventured, her heart going out to him despite, or perhaps because of, the disappointment flooding her own chest. He may have been an unknowing rival of Nicholas’, but she wouldn’t judge him immediately for it.

He shrugged, frowning as he appraised the closed door. A hand ran through his unruly brown hair. “I could, but …they only invited me because they got ahold of something I was tinkering with for fun, and I wanted to make a serious first impression, you know? Not just stumble in late looking like I fought my way out of Newgate.”

Nodding, Belle watched in detached fascination as he fell heavily to the floor beside her in an exact mirror of her actions not twenty minutes before. “Do you mind if I sit with you for a bit, Miss? I’m a little out of breath.”

He grinned sheepishly at that, almost as if they weren’t splayed out on the ground in a room in Gresham College, both wishing they could be on the opposite side of a plank of wood. 

Belle shook her head, surprised when he initiated a greeting by extending his hand for her to take. When she did, rather than raising it to his mouth for the customary kiss, he shook it as if she were a man. “I’m Eli Wallace. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Belle French. And you.” Almost against her will, a grin quirked the corner of her mouth.

Drawing his hand back into his lap, Eli looked down at them. With his round face and wide eyes, he looked so young, certainly less than her twenty-seven years. “Sorry I plopped down next to you. I know it’s not very polite.”

“Really, it’s no matter. You looked quite exhausted.” For all that she still felt like crying, talking was at least helping to distract from the pain.

“I am. I was helping my mother and lost track of the time, and so ran the whole way here.” A rueful grin twisted his lips, and he pulled at wrinkles in his grey overcoat, flecked with mud. “Not fast enough, apparently.”

Belle let an answering smile take hold, murmuring archly, “That’s more than what three quarters of the fools inside can do. I’d like to see them run twenty feet. Besides, I am sure your mother appreciated it.”

“She does. It’s difficult for her to manage everything alone while ill.”

An old loss stirred to life at his words, and Belle did not have to fake the empathy in her own. “I’m sorry.”

He waved it aside half-heartedly, before quickly changing the subject. “I don’t mean to pry, but if I remember correctly, don’t you, er,” he thumbed over his shoulder at the door, “normally attend these? Shouldn’t you be inside?”

“That I should,” she bit out, and throwing caution to the wind, continued, “But a man who has decided that my mind is too delicate for my own work has barred me today.”

Eli’s mouth fell open, and he turned to face her completely.

“Wait, are you saying you are Gregory Strand? I know they were saying it was probably a pseudonym but you’re really him?”

A little bemused at his enthusiasm, Belle smiled tightly and said, “The one and only.”

“God above, this is, this is,” his face reddened as he fought for words, “it’s such an honor. I read your manuscript in two days, it was so fascinating. Do you know you went farther than Newton? Of course you do, you wrote it.”

Laughing even though she felt like she might cry, Belle could appreciate the irony of Nicholas’ would-be rival being the second to congratulate her on her work. And the fact that said rival was also more puppy than ruthless scholar. “Thank you. It’s not a completely finished analysis, as I am sure you saw.”

Eli’s beam only grew, his gestures becoming more excited as he spoke, “Yes, but I think that if you look again at how you handled your second case, you might find that you only accounted for two disturbances, instead of three. And in the third case, if you –“

The familiar creaking of the door cut off his words, and they both snapped to attention.

Nicholas stood in the doorway, awash in the sunlight from the bank of windows inside. It glinted off of his spectacles, nearly hiding his eyes. From what she could see though, thunderclouds brewed there, and a tightness Belle rarely observed directed at her gripped his features. His jaw was locked into place like a rusted trap.

“You have news?” Pushing herself to her feet, Belle could not help the hope fluttering traitorously in her breast. If it was dashed now, she didn’t know what she would do.

Nicholas nodded mechanically, resolutely ignoring the young man slowly rising as well. “If you can spare a minute from your discourse here, I’ve persuaded them to allow you inside.”

Caught between the sweet upwelling of relief and irked confusion at his cold tone, Belle decided to embrace the positive side of the situation and deal with the rest later. Grinning, she turned to Eli, who stood fidgeting and shifting foot to foot in the wake of Nicholas’ icy stare. “Will you be joining us?”

Eli averted his gaze, almost shrinking into himself. “I think I might try next month. Perhaps we may speak another time though, if that’s alright?”

“Of course. Stop by my father’s shop on Exchange Alley, I’m usually there.” Belle could feel Nicholas’ stare on her back, but studiously ignored it. When she said that no one decided her fate, she meant it – not even him. He was probably put out by her recent association with Eli Wallace, but Belle personally thought he might benefit from learning from the young man rather than competing with him.

Parting with a small wave, Belle followed Nicholas inside. Perhaps not all was lost after all.


	7. Fine White Sand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belle needs a second pair of hands at close quarters, and lady’s gloves aren’t practical for a lensmaker.
> 
> Rated NC-17 for Nick's reactions.

Liquid pools of gold illuminated the workbench, candle flame flickering with each draft from under the door. The light extended poorly upwards, illuminating the curve of her cheek and chin while leaving shadows to pool around her eyes. It lit the pale expanse of her neck and shoulders left bare by the style of her dress, to say nothing of the rise of her breasts he tried to ignore; a goddess of iron and firelight made flesh. Stubborn locks of hair escaped from her bun curled delicately around her temples.

Nicholas itched to tuck one behind her ear, but kept his hands glued to his side.

“Last chance to back out,” she warned, turning to look at him even as her hands, incongruously sheathed in thin white gloves, continued to seek out the necessary tools, “I only believe in two pause points, and we’re starting from the second one. It’s now to the end.”

To Nicholas, working in the near-dark seemed counterproductive, but Belle’s expert hands found each device effortlessly. Based on touch alone she could use them even in total blackness, she’d claimed, but had confessed with a blush that the lens would probably be of subpar quality. His gaze transfixed by her thumb, idly tracing over a metal cylinder whose purpose he couldn’t fathom at the moment, Nicholas barely registered her words.

The seconds stretched on, and he shook himself from the trance. A sad smile took root, and as words came forth, he wished she knew how true they were. “I told you, Belle, you have me until the end. Do with my hands as you will.”

Seemingly ignorant of the wellspring of feeling behind it, Belle grinned and reached for two circular disks pushed nearer the wall. Gesturing that he should hold out his hand, she placed one delicately in his palm. An incomplete lens, unpolished and not fully ground.

Rather than educate with the lens still in her own grasp, Belle instead traced over the one in his, drawing closer until their arms touched from shoulder to hand. Her draped sleeves barely reached her elbows, leaving bare skin to brush against the thin cotton of his shirt. Nicholas fancied he could feel her heat clear through it.

“I started these yesterday on the lathe,” she began, a fingertip separated from his palm by only a thin plane of glass and fabric, “but the best work is done by hand. Originally this glass had two sheets, but the two have different faults, conflicting grains, from when the blower turned it around his iron. The top sheet must be ground away, and the thickness maintained constant. When it’s not done properly, you obtain a lens like the one currently in your telescope – or, I think, like the one I have here.”

She paused a moment to scrutinize the lens in her hand before a candle flame, and a frown preempted its return to the back of the workbench. It glinted for a moment before disappearing in the shadows.

“What was wrong with that one?” His voice hoarse, the scent of having her close permeated his nose.

“The quality of glass isn’t high enough. Because of that, out of ten attempts, we obtain a lens, maybe two.”

Trying to reclaim his body, he focused on the cool glass in his hand. Its light weight almost served to center him. “How frustrating.”

Belle shrugged, saying, “You learn not to take it personally. It’s why the shop is always so busy.”

He nodded, a mystery he hadn’t known he’d even been wondering at last answered. Allowing her to pluck the lens from his hand, he asked, “And where do I come in?”

“You see this?” She pointed to a convex metal contraption bolted to the table, before reaching to jostle it gently. “It’s loose, Lord knows why. I need you to hold it down while I finish grinding this lens, as I don’t trust it during these last stages.”

About to ask why she didn’t merely fix or replace it, Nicholas held his tongue at the last moment. No need to risk making it sound like he didn’t want to help her, because for any amount of time stolen in her company, he most certainly did. Especially when it involved a trade he found fascinating and useful regardless.

Instead, his hands hovered over the tool. His stomach flipped at the prospect of working side by side with her, turning their efforts to a shared pursuit as their arms and hands brushed and – “Where exactly would it be best to hold it?”

“Like this,” Belle explained, gripping just under the curved head with one hand while the other applied pressure to the base. From what he knew of lens making, which granted was not much, there was a high probability her hand would hold his at the top. As if unaware of that fact, she added off-handedly, “Should hold it steady, I think.”

Swallowing, he took a moment to readjust his spectacles – worn today in anticipation of detailed work – and assumed the position she’d described. The metal, chilled from the night, bit into his skin.

Still gloved, as if she’d forgotten it was, one hand reached into a canister somewhere on her left. It returned with a small amount of fine white sand, which she deposited in front of the device’s base. A pinch applied to one face of the lens, she brought it carefully against the convex head. As he’d hoped, the hand not holding the glass gripped his own to help steady her movements.

A half-laugh escaped him as she began to rub the lens slowly in a predetermined pattern, the scratch of the lace heightening the sensation of her hand against his. She squeezed rhythmically with her efforts, and with icy metal below and the impossible heat of flesh above, his nerves pinged haphazardly in pleasurable confusion.

He lost track of time as she ground, the comfortable silence humming with something he dare not name beneath the surface. Seconds, minutes, more, he could not discern, too absorbed in the web of sensory data assaulting his mind. He could have stayed like that for hours, if not for a quirk of lens-making technique nearly stopping his heart.

A slight parting of her lips was the only warning he received before she bent towards the lens, her mouth a scant fraction of an inch from his grip. Mind already reeling, the sensation of her breath, hot and as soft as a caress against his skin, nearly broke him. The view also exposed the curve of her breasts to his gaze, full and heavy and so close he could touch. 

Though he prided himself on his self-control, Nicholas felt the first stirrings within his breeches, something so simple serving to ignite an ache low in his belly. Breathing deeply, he gripped the tool harder, simultaneously relieved and disappointed when she straightened.

Her eyes still on the lens, Belle murmured, “At this point, the sand is moistened only with the breath.”

“So you will have to keep doing that?” The ache only worsened at the notion, dull and throbbing and moving steadily lower.

She met his gaze, and he couldn’t read the expression there. “Do you mind?”

“Not at all,” he breathed.

A smile was his only answer, as she turned her attention back to grinding the small piece of glass he had fervently decided was sent from a supernatural world – whether heaven or hell, he couldn’t yet tell. Steeling his nerves, he spent the time between each soft, warm puff of air attempting to brace for the next one, merely to find his control smashed at each turn. By the time the cycle had repeated three or four times, her lips coming tantalizingly close to his hand only to breathe sweetly over his exposed flesh, he was almost shaking.

Nicholas thanked a god he didn’t believe in that the workbench was high enough and the candlelight weak enough to hide the bulge straining his breeches from view.

Despite the maelstrom inside his body, Belle kept working, methodical and professional as always, her lip trapped between her teeth in a way he longed to emulate. Nothing seemed to disturb her rhythm, until a hissed damnit met his ears.

Struggling to keep his voice steady, Nicholas managed, “Something wrong?”

She carefully returned the lens to the benchtop, before extending her hand for him to see. The fine lace enclosing her index finger had ripped quite a ways, the elegant fingertip beneath peeking through. The sudden urge to suck it gently into his mouth, remove the glove with his teeth, popped into his mind, and Nicholas brusquely pushed aside the thought. Instead, he probed only with two fingers of his own.

“I was wondering why you were still wearing your gloves. I thought you might have forgotten.”

An almost smile tugged at her lips, calling for his own to press against them. “No, it was intentional.”

“Why?”

“It’s silly, I’ll warn you.”

“Go on.”

“It would be nice to combine being a lady with being an artisan, if that makes any sense. Show them the two don’t have to conflict.” She brought her hands up to eyelevel, inspecting the tear in the fingertip. “Instead, all I seem to do is go through gloves at an alarming rate.”

His heart going out to her, even as his blood decidedly tried to escape its push upwards, he covered her hand with his own. Properly this time, rather than the product of holding a tool steady. She didn’t pull away.

“I think you combine the two just fine, Belle.”

“Thank you.”

Almost as if dreaming, he watched transfixed as she grasped his hand, raising it to her lips for the second time ever. There was no teasing puff of air, only the sensation of her soft kiss against the rough skin of his knuckles.

Smiling, she whispered, “Mind removing these for me?”

He didn’t trust himself to speak, only peeled the lace from her hands with a tenderness his cold mind could never manage to put into words. With all his might, he prayed she understood.


	8. In the Quiet Dark (NC-17)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nicholas dreams of the day they spent lens grinding, only it happens a little differently. (Here is a Nick BJ dream.)

The workshop was as silent as a Roman catacomb, bereft of even the sounds of the street slipping in through cracks in the door. Rather than forbidding, it mixed with the warm candlelight to create something comforting, cocooning. Pleasantly warm, he longed to push up his sleeves, but did not dare remove his hands from the grinding head. Belle needed him to keep it steady, and he would.

Standing so close their arms brushed, he noted that Belle had forgone a shawl and, as his glance trickled downward, loosened the stays of her dress. His breath catching in his throat, he was unprepared for the way her gaze suddenly jumped to his. Her hands kept moving, grinding, grinding.

“Are you still alright?” Though her words spoke innocence her mouth did not, shaping into a smile that promised so very many things. “It’s not too hard, right?”

Sputtering a bit at her choice of diction, Nicholas could only shake his head. She had been grinding for awhile now, that meant it was probably time for…

He could barely finish the thought before she bent towards their hands, her dress gaping to reveal not only the luscious curves of the top of her breasts, but the tantalizing hint of roseate nipple just above the line of fabric. His eyes snapped closed as she began to breathe.

Though the torture should have ended after a moment, Belle seemed content to pause there, her release of breath gently buffeting his thumb and forefinger. Knowing she was there, merely waiting for God knew what, sent warm currents of heat flooding into his belly. The moment her tongue, just the tip and oh just a teasing lick, caressed the side of his thumb, he could keep his eyes closed no longer.

His breathing was labored, blood leaving his brain so quickly he felt his thoughts skittering away on the breeze. “Belle?”

“Yes?” She purred, peering upwards as her hands stilled their work. As if becoming aware only now, she glanced at her unbound dress, the corners of her mouth quirking upwards. “Oh, are these the problem?”

Agonizingly slow, she straightened, cupping her breasts and gently stroking one nipple he longed to take between his teeth. “I know you like to look at them anyway,” she revealed, her eyes heavy lidded with a heat he had never dreamed to see there, “I know you think about touching them.”

Nicholas found he couldn’t answer, his mind monopolized by her involuntary little gasps as she pinched and teased.

After a moment, Belle stopped her ministrations, and he feared she meant to take up the lens and begin grinding, grinding once more. To his surprise, she merely stepped closer, her heat blending with that of the room to blanket his skin, before idly trailing her fingers through the ruffles at the front of his shirt. He couldn’t remember taking off his waistcoat, but he blessed its absence.

“I have work to do, you know,” she whispered, her fingers blazing a path of fire as they went up and down, up and down. Raising herself on tiptoe to see more eye to eye, her hand teased just below his navel, and between them and the rough turn to her voice, a soft moan was pulled from his throat. “You’re very bad for distracting me.”

“I’m sorry,” he forced out, and for his life he didn’t mean a single word.

As if reading his thoughts, she replied, “I’m not,” and sunk gracefully to her knees.

Half of his brain, what was left working of it in any case, screamed at him to pull her to her feet, that he didn’t deserve this from her. The other half could only plead with her to keep going, to continue picking apart the laces of his breeches and touch him where he wanted, needed it most. It was the second half that won out, barely articulate entreaties spilling from his mouth, please Belle and love you so much Belle repeating in an endless litany.

The flaps of his trousers gaped open, and he thanked fortune that he had forgone any warmer layer underneath. One capable hand removed his cock from its constrictive prison, warm and barely calloused as she coaxed his foreskin over his shaft. Belle maintained a tight grip, as he often did beneath his bedcovers at night, tugging him slightly upwards with each stroke over the head.

Looking down, her breasts were gorgeous pushed together by her arms working his cock, but it was her face, the knowledge that this was Belle on her knees before him that sent him racing on the path towards climax.

She leaned closer the tiniest bit, and when her lips parted, even the knowledge that he knew what was about to happen could not prepare him for the sensation, the hot rush of breath followed by the long, slow swipe of her tongue under his head. Biting his tongue to keep back the cascade of moans, as he doubted Belle wanted to hear how pathetic they were, Nicholas could barely support himself, and sagged into the workbench.

He was close, impossibly close already, and Belle, she needed, needed to –

With a cry, Nicholas snapped awake, a warm gush of cum onto his hand pulling him fully from the realm of dreams. His hand clutched his cock, not Belle’s, and the thought sent air whooshing from his lungs even as the last of his orgasm faded.

His bed, a mess from his tossing, loomed seemingly too large and empty around him. His face turned into the pillow, and as his ragged breathing fought to slow, Nicholas could only close his eyes and think of her smile.


End file.
